


But If Only You Could See Yourself In My Eyes

by ohhelgawrites



Category: Good Omens (TV), Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: Confusion, Don’t copy to another site, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Requited Love, crowley doesn’t think he can be loved
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-08-31
Updated: 2019-08-31
Packaged: 2020-10-04 03:09:41
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,810
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20464046
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ohhelgawrites/pseuds/ohhelgawrites
Summary: AU where Crowley can’t hear any of Aziraphale’sI love yousbecause he doesn’t believe that it’s possible for an Angel to feel that sort of love. So, Aziraphale has to get creative.





	But If Only You Could See Yourself In My Eyes

**Author's Note:**

> Title from _‘Lost’_ by Dermot Kennedy.
> 
> Fic idea from [this post](https://niche-pastiche.tumblr.com/post/186787451842/i-need-a-good-omens-au-where-aziraphale-tells) on tumblr.
> 
> First posted this fic on my tumblr, but I have decided to bite the bullet and actually make an ao3 account.

The first time it happens, it’s as if his heart is breaking. A traitorous human thing he doesn’t even technically need. But there it is, stuttering in his chest making him feel off kilter. Aziraphale can feel his eyes sting with unshed tears as he searches Crowley’s face. Crowley’s expression causes even more confusion and distress as he looks at Aziraphale with polite interest; nothing to suggest that the angel had just bared his soul, opened his heart and let words of love spill from his lips. Aziraphale staggers back a step as his breath catches and suddenly Crowley is in his space, catching onto his arm to steady him.

“You feeling okay there, Angel?” Crowley asks with concern.

Aziraphale is helpless. He just confessed his feelings, feelings he had buried deep within for such a long time. This all encompassing love that scorched his insides even as he attempted to suppress it. That would come unbidden, bubbling to the surface and threatening to overflow whenever Crowley was near.

He can only nod and attempt to clear his throat, “P-perfectly fine. I think everything’s just catching up to me.”

Crowley’s face morphs into one of understanding, “Of course, Angel. Surviving the end of the world is a tad exhausting, eh?”

He smiles and it breaks Aziraphale’s heart just a little more.

*

The second time it happens- Aziraphale can barely believe there’s even a second time- is just as gut wrenchingly painful and disconcerting. It’s Crowley’s lack of reaction. His face, his body language, all indicate a conversation no more important than discussing the weather. Crowley certainly doesn’t convey that he understands what Aziraphale has just told him.

And yet.

Aziraphale can feel the love Crowley has for him. Can feel it right down to the marrow, can feel it filling his lungs and flowing through his veins. He can almost taste its sweetness on his tongue like honey, can feel it taking root behind his ribs. Aziraphale can see it shining from Crowley’s eyes, can sense it in every touch, every soft word spoken, every breath.

And yet.

And yet.

*

The third, fourth and fifth time it happens, Aziraphale becomes suspicious.

_ “I love you, Crowley__,”_ falls on deaf ears.

_“You are the light of my life__,”_ goes unheeded.

_ “I adore you__,”_ tumbles from Aziraphale’s mouth and shatters between them, unheard and overlooked.

Aziraphale is determined, is the thing. He knows he loves Crowley, and he is certain Crowley loves him. So, in true stubborn angel style, Aziraphale decides to test his demon.

Aziraphale pens a love note. It is sickeningly sweet and direct, full of declarations and admissions that screams _ i love you with every ounce of my being _and leaves no doubt as to Aziraphale’s true affections. When Crowley next visits the bookshop, Aziraphale, with a shaking hand, tentatively holds the note out to him and tries to smile, but misses the mark by a mile.

“Angel, what’s this? Have _Up There _ been in touch?” Crowley asks with worry, his distaste clear on the words _ ‘up there’ _ leaving no doubt who he is referring to.

“Oh no, dear, nothing like that. It’s- it’s from me, actually,” Aziraphale takes a breath to steady his suddenly clamouring nerves, “I wrote you… something,”

Aziraphale cringes as Crowley smirks.

“Wrote something for me, did you? Oh, Angel, you shouldn’t have,” Crowley replies playfully, opening the letter with a flourish.

Time seems to stop, Aziraphale ceases breathing (he may not need to, but habits are tricky things to break after living amongst humans so long) and he examines Crowley’s face for any signs of shock at the words on the page.

Aziraphale isn’t sure what to expect, but surely Crowley must see it now. It’s there, ink on paper and as plain as day. Undeniable in black and white by the angel’s hand. The words are raw and frank, drawn from Aziraphale’s very soul.

And.

And.

Nothing.

No hint of recognition, no dawning of realisation. Just. Nothing.

*

He doesn’t give up per say, it’s more like Aziraphale resigns himself to the fact that Crowley seems to be unable to hear or see the angel’s words of love. And it isn’t for lack of trying on Aziraphale’s part. He’s lost count how many times he’s said the words or wrote them down. But no matter how Azirapahle phrases it, no matter the different synonyms he experiments with, nothing seems to work. Crowley either doesn’t have a reaction, or it’s as if he’s heard something so mundane, so normal that it’s just part of everyday conversation; not an admission from the depths of Aziraphale’s heart.

Aziraphale can admit it leaves him feeling torn in two, run ragged with his warring emotions. Part of him is still full to bursting with love for Crowley, so much love it’s almost too much for his poor human heart to contain. But the other part has resigned himself to the fact that his love will go unnoticed. It’s a deeper, darker side that Aziraphale endeavours to ignore until it cleaves the way to the surface, tearing at his insecurities and leaving him raw.

So, as Azirapahle has always done, he shows his love in other ways that are no less tangible than the spoken word. When Crowley visits and stays late into the night, Aziraphale will sit next to him on the couch, slowly but surely getting closer and closer as the evening wears on. He’ll brush his hands against Crowley’s as the bottle of whatever their drinking is passed between them. He’ll carefully, _ tenderly_, fix the front of Crowley’s hair that has fell against his forehead the more drink he consumes, the more relaxed he becomes. Eventually, Aziraphale is so close, their thighs are touching, but he feels bolder with alcohol. He doesn’t have the strength to deny himself this, not when he is already denied sharing his love- _ his heart- _ with Crowley.

When Crowley wakes, gasping and shaking, Azirapahle is there. He takes him in his arms, unfurls his wings and cocoons them both, sheltering Crowley from the darkness of his nightmares.

When they take a stroll around St James’ Park, Aziraphale will link his arm with Crowley’s, and when he looks at him with a questioning brow, Aziraphale simply beams and squeezes Crowley’s arm. Aziraphale doesn’t miss the small, private smile that’s just for him.

When they’re sitting at lunch or dinner or maybe even brunch (clever lot those humans and their feeding times) Aziraphale will casually reach across the table and take Crowley’s hand as he peruses the menu. He never looks up, just focuses on the words in front of him, but Crowley no longer tenses in surprise. He even squeezes his hand in return.

Aziraphale shares his love and adoration for Crowley in innumerable ways and he can feel Crowley’s love radiating back to him, like the warmth of a beautiful summers day and as bright as the brightest star. If this is all he can have he’ll take it. Aziraphale would rather live another six millennia with what he has with Crowley now. Than with nothing at all.

*

Aziraphale hasn’t forgotten his attempts at admitting his love to Crowley (hard to forget each crushing blow), but he has gotten so familiar with _ showing _ Crowley how he feels that what happens one afternoon leaves him reeling.

It starts as a normal Tuesday, with nothing of note happening. Aziraphale potters around his shop until it’s time to visit Crowley at his flat. Ever since the aftermath of the not so quite Armageddon, Aziraphale has frequented Crowley’s home often. He enjoys the change of pace being in Crowley’s flat, with its tall windows, open spaces and far less clutter- although Aziraphale has managed to smuggle some pieces into the space. Today is no different has he lets himself in.

“In here, Angel,” Crowley calls from deeper in the flat. It’s hard to discern where ‘here’ actually is, but Aziraphale is guessing it’s his plant room.

Crowley has his mister in one hand, a wilted plant in the other, and a look of cold indifference as he faces the rest of his plants.

“Oh, Crowley dear, have you been terrorising those poor creatures again?”

Crowley turns to face Aziraphale with a frustrated sigh borne of a well worn argument, “It’s not terrorising, I’m teaching. They have to learn the rules of living here. Don’t follow the rules and face the consequences.”

At his last statement, Crowley turns to stare menacingly at the plants, brandishing the forlorn plant in his hand toward them, their leaves quivering in response.

Aziraphale utters a quiet _ ‘tsk’ _ and steps forward, prising the sad looking plant with its limp leaves from Crowley’s grasp.

“There, there, no need to fret young one. This wily old serpent’s hiss is worse than his bite. How about I put you right-” Aziraphale walks closer to the window and finds the perfect little space for the plant to perch on- “here. There, that’s much better. Now do try to get as much sunlight as you can. He’ll really appreciate it, you know.” Aziraphale says with a smile as he strokes the outermost leaf of the plant.

When Aziraphale turns, Crowley is frozen in place, the mister now hanging loosely in his grasp.

“Crowley?” Aziraphale takes a small step forwards, but stops when Crowley abruptly moves to face him head on.

“Tell me again,” he croaks, the words almost lost on his tongue.

“Tell you? Tell you what, my dear?”

“Tell- say it- what-” Crowley hisses in annoyance as he moves to stand directly in front of Aziraphale- “Say it again. What you’ve been trying to say. Say it again.” Crowley is almost pleading as if he’s run out of time, as if he’s missed his chance and is desperately trying to catch up.

It suddenly hits Aziraphale what he means. After all this time he can’t quite believe it and the past heartaches rear their ugly heads with a vengeance, strangling his heart and choking the words in his throat. He’s not sure what’s changed, but it’s suddenly terrifying- like standing on the edge of a sheer drop with no wings to fly with, and no safety net below to catch you.

Aziraphale opens and closes his mouth uselessly, a short desperate gasp the only sound he makes.

“Angel, please,” Crowley whispers, his voice a quiet, torn thing.

Aziraphale can see the beginnings of tears in Crowley’s wide golden eyes, can see the pain and heartache etched in every line on Crowley’s face, mirroring his own torment.

“I love you,”

“Again,”

“I love you,”

_“Angel!”_

“Crowley, my love, my heart, my shining star. _I love you_.”

Crowley collapses into Aziraphale’s arms, the weight of the declarations hitting him full force now that’s he letting them.

“You love me… you actually- I love you, Angel. So much.”

“I know,”

**Author's Note:**

> tumblr @ ohhlega


End file.
